


Heir To The Ashes

by reaperlight



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Arkanis Academy of Casual Murder, Backstory, Brendol Hux's A+ Parenting, Child Abuse, Child Soldiers, Creepy, Family Secrets, Force Ghosts, Force-Sensitive Hux, Growing Up, Guilt, Horror, Hux Backstory, Hux Has Issues, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, M/M, Moral Ambiguity, Murder, Mutual Pining, Mystery, Not As Big of a Jerk As You Could Have Been Awards all around, Obsession, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pyromania, Pyromaniac Hux, Scheming, Self-Harm, Sith Shenanigans, Slow Burn, Unreliable Narrator, Villains
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-07
Updated: 2016-07-14
Packaged: 2018-07-22 03:22:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7417660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reaperlight/pseuds/reaperlight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Typical Ren. Self-centered, arrogant, indifferent to the interests of others. Hux thought, knowing they had far more in common than he was ever willing to admit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Grandfather… _please_ ,” croaked the kneeling figure in his darkened quarters, naked desperation and despair rolling off of him like a sickly miasma. 

“Grandfather… I have always tried to apply your teachings,” he shuddered slightly, the dark fabric that trailed down from his shoulders pooled like liquid shadow around him on the floor on which he knelt. 

It was _all_ very Dark. He thought sardonically that his grandfather would have been very proud. 

“I fear I was still not careful enough,” he voiced his fears in nearly a whisper, as if to even voice it might make it so. “That… Supreme Leader _sensed it._ ” 

He just didn’t know what to do. 

That hadn't happened for quite a long time. 

He always had plans and counter-plans but in one horrible instance they'd all gone up in smoke. 

In a moment of weakness he had even considered comming his father—a _laughable_ notion. His father couldn’t save him from this—nor would he _want_ him to—he fought his own battles. 

He always had. 

It was just, for the first time he could remember, his way forward was unclear.

“I could really use your guidance…” he tried to keep his voice from trembling in a way most unbecoming for a man of his rank and station. That was _unworthy._ No wonder his grandfather didn’t answer… Suddenly, he felt ridiculous kneeling on the floor—especially since he already knew no ghost was going to appear. 

Not since Nuada...

It was just a moment of weakness but that's all it took. 

He only had himself to blame. 

He’d thought he’d known everything. That he was the most powerful being in the galaxy, his ascent to power guaranteed… 

He was such a _fool._

His sad attempt at meditation was interrupted by Millicent rubbing against his knee.

The general sighed in mock aggravation as his cat shed bright orange furs upon the greatcoat that was currently trailing thoughtlessly on the floor around him. Still, he indulged in stroking the feline’s soft fur—it was calming. He needed to be calm. He couldn’t afford another slip. He feared that Snoke was already dangerously close to realizing the truth… if he hadn’t already. 

Millicent mewled softly and Hux hugged her to his chest. 

No, he could not fail now, not after everything he’d sacrificed to get this far, and not with so many counting on him and his success. (His ship, his crew, Millicent, purring in his arms, Phasma, his best stormtrooper captain, loyal Mitaka, Ren… _no, don’t be foolish._ hissed an inner voice that sounded eerily like his grandfather, _Ren is Snoke’s creature. To forget that would be courting doom._ ) 

No, he had to face the facts. 

It was over. 

He _knew_ that. It was foolish to try and hide any longer. Snoke _knew_ what he was now—he was sure of it. 

He was going to have to make his bid for power soon, even though he felt he was far from ready. 

Despite having trained for that very moment his entire life.

***

Brennie is five years old. 

It’s after lights out and he knows he’s supposed to be asleep but finds himself unable to do so. Instead he stares sleepless into the dark, half-hoping that the by-now familiar hum of the engines of this old rust-bucket of a stardestroyer that had been repurposed for the Exiles would lull him to sleep as effectively as the sound of rain on the roof used to back on Arkanis. 

It never does. 

A tight hunger gnawed at his gut but he knew better than to complain of this, or of the fact that he was kept awake by the sounds of the ship and the other sleeping children, no, _junior cadets._ Brennie was unused to sharing a living space with so many others. He knew it was selfish, not to mention _foolish,_ to think about but he missed his old room back on Arkanis, even if it sometimes got lonely—back then it was pretty much just him and DDM38, the nanny droid. But now surrounded by others, others he was unable to connect with, he felt even more alone. And now even DeeDee was gone… 

Even among so many it got so lonely—especially with the thousands of voices muttering, whispering, _screaming_ in his head. Brennie knew it was not normal to hear other people’s thoughts—if that even was what this was… 

He couldn’t ask and he knew better than to display weakness. 

Surely they’d just think he was crazy.

Maybe he was, but he had no one to turn to.

His name and his intellect set the younger Hux apart. His father further encouraged his isolation—the Commandant had lectured Brennie on more than one occasion, assuring him that standing apart from the others was the mark of a good leader. Brennie took some solace in that. 

But he knew his father couldn’t help him with this—even if he _was_ so inclined. 

His father was _always_ busy, even before the rebels came and they were forced to leave their home. His father had run the Imperial Academy (he still did—the new Academies were just found on stardestroyers along with every other aspect of their lives.) Brennie only ever saw him when he gave his regular reports. And his mother… his _bio_ -mother, he’d only ever met her twice—the woman with long hair swept up in neat braids that was as red as his own and dressed in a sweeping black hooded dress, the woman who made the pretty red light… 

Brennie didn’t understand but he got the sense that father didn’t like her around very much-or at least not around _him._ Both times the woman visited ( _his mother came home_ ) his father drew a gun on her and wouldn’t let her or the pretty light near him.

She was clearly not welcome there. 

After both encounters his father would get out the bottle that smelled funny and cursing about witches and sorcery. Brennie didn’t think his father had even _mentioned_ who she was, claiming she was just an intruder, and yet he had somehow _known..._

It wasn’t fair. He hardly even _knew_ her and now he didn’t even know if she was alive or dead…

No. That wasn’t true. He couldn’t explain it but he’d _felt_ it, like a pain in his chest even as they were evacuating… he knew that she was dead. Brennie wasn’t sure why that pained him so—DeeDee had been more of a mother than she ever was—but it did. And he’d lost DeeDee that day too. When he’d asked his father had casually suggested that the Republic probably had her melted down for scrap. His father had then firmly (and with unnecessary violence) reminded him that “boys don’t cry.” 

It was well-deserved—he understood that now. He had forgotten himself—he’d been weak, pathetic and it had been a hard day for all of them and carrying on like that—he was just becoming a burden on the Exile’s resources, not fit to be a Commandant’s son…

Under the thin, threadbare blanket, Brennie cradled the locket. 

It had belonged to his mother (the woman in the black dress, not Dee Dee) she’d given it to him the second time he’d seen her, before father chased her away. 

He knew he should turn it in to Collections or pawn it himself. Credits were tight for the Exiles and so were rations. Who knew how many portions he could get, how many of his friends he could feed by turning it in? Yet somehow he could never find the voice or the strength to hand it over when the Collectors made their rounds and, somehow, Brennie always managed to keep it hidden. No one ever noticed or mentioned it when he kept the locket clipped beside his dogtags, worn beneath the undershirt of his junior cadet’s uniform (right over his heart in a display of what his father would name _stupid sentiment._ )

Brennie knew he was smarter than the other cadets and yet he still did not understand as much as he would like about the galaxy. Asking questions was highly discouraged and information was tightly controlled. But Brennie listened intently when the adults spoke and greedily devoured whatever holos and records were available. 

Brennie knew that he didn’t understand as much as he would like but one thing was clear as the bizarre rainless, _burning_ alien skies over Jakku and Tatooine (the sun was a rare and welcome sight back on Arkanis, Brennie never thought he would ever come to curse the very presence of a sun)—the Rebel Scum, the so-called _New Republic_ —they’d taken _everything_. He didn’t even have to rely on the prop he was spoon-fed to know that—he’d witnessed it first hand, seen his classmates and their parents mowed down and blown up by rebels in the exodus, knowing they had taken his mother from him ( _both_ of them), watching more of his classmates succumb to starvation and sickness as they fled, jumping from planet to planet in the Outer Rim. Brennie himself had survived contracting countless, unnamable alien diseases—he’d been sick for so long he barely remembered what it was like to be well. But here, on this relatively clean, orderly hermetically sealed stardestroyer he was the least sick he’d been for a long time. He was finally recovering from… whatever he’d last contracted. At least he’d stopped coughing and bleeding from the eyes and with the way his body shivered he could even hope that maybe his fever was breaking. 

With a huff Brennie rolled over onto his back and tried again to just will himself asleep by just staring into the dark, as always trying to block out the voices that only he seemed able to hear. Even if he couldn’t sleep sometimes he’d managed almost a meditative trance and while not as effective as actual sleep he might actually power through the day without collapsing. He couldn’t afford to be sick again or miss sleep. He had more Basic Training at the start of Alpha Shift. 

_(Unnoticed the locket popped open while he shifted around, unconsciously fumbling with it beneath the blankets...)_

Of course his training hadn’t stopped just because they had to leave the Academy (just because the Empire had fallen.) Brennie had overheard that Command was taking them to the Outer Reaches, to Wild Space far, far away where they would be safe from the rebel scum and the New Republic—where they could _rebuild._

The New Republic… _what a joke_ —all soft, weak idiots who clearly didn’t even know _how_ to rule. They didn’t even have their own military for Force-sake! In their flight he’d already seen the shape of things to come. And while he knew his own home world of Arkanis was far from the decadence of the Core that Imperial culture sought to emulate, when compared to many of the worlds they’d visited, they made the perpetually rainy outpost look downright civilized. Arkanis was far better off than most of the Outer Rim—in their flight across the galaxy they had taken a tour of such lawless hellholes—polluted, diseased, and disorderly worlds that the New Republic claimed to be helping—this much was an obvious _lie._

Brennie sneered, small fists scrunching into his poor excuse for a blanket—he’d never once seen their so-called "hero rebels" help anyone but they were always there to _shoot at them._ They were enemies of all that was good and just in the galaxy. They sat on their asses surrounded by luxuries while the people they claimed to be championing _starved_ —he’d seen it with his own eyes. How they got the reputation of being heroes on so many planets, Brennie had no idea. History being written by the winners, he supposed. They must have a very good propaganda machine. If… no _when_ he was in charge of things, he would make sure that theirs would be better. He’d write the prop himself if he had to...

_“Good. GOOD! Let the hate flow through you.”_

Brennie jumped at the sudden intrusion of an adult male voice, much too close. How had a stranger managed to get so close without him noticing? He usually had excellent situational awareness—born of necessity (and of his classmates, hostile aliens and… _most everyone_ trying to kill him.) 

Brennie immediately snatched the echani dagger he kept hidden in the sheath beneath his pillow. (It wasn’t standard issue, he’d picked off the corpse of some gangster he’d found in a back alley on Ryloth—when he’d found it he’d been surprised it hadn’t been picked over already but he wasn’t going to complain).

Despite his sickness and exhaustion his muscle memory had him effortlessly executing the maneuver—leaping up from his bed, whirling on the intruder and slashing his throat open… or the move should have slashed his throat open. Brennie was surprised by the lack of spurting blood when he slashed into where the intruder’s throat should be to no effect. The knife slipped right through him—without damaging him—as if he wasn’t even there; like… 

_A hologram?_

Perhaps he was, or something like it, though Brennie couldn’t see where the projector might be.

“ _Good!_ Very good, child,” the intruder praised, “If I was a mortal man I would be dead,” the specter spoke with wry humor from beneath his cowl. The man wore a dark, hooded dress much like his mother had and despite the overall aura of darkness he seemed to _glow_ a strange red light in the dark. Brennie was captivated despite himself. There was still a chance that it was a hologram but he couldn’t help but wonder at the man’s claim at being something… _beyond_ human might just be true. Not a disgusting alien—well the figure was strange but for the most part he looked human just… _really old_ and with strangely burning yellow eyes—the only feature that didn't appear in glowing shades of red. Even the clothes the figure wore... something in Brennie was telling him they should have been black like his mother’s but instead they appeared the color of an old wound.) 

“I mean you no harm, child.” 

Brennie had already inferred that, given that the figure had yet to try and kill him—it seemed the stranger needed him for some purpose. Brennie knew how to pick his battles and given how it seemed he was incapable of hurting the stranger it seemed he had no choice but to consider it… provided it wasn’t treasonous. 

“Oh child, you should have no fear of that. _You_ could never commit treason,” the man said, amused and not assuaging Brennie’s fears in the slightest. “You _are_ the Empire… Though you have yet to realize your true potential.” 

The young boy frowned and pursed his lips. DeeDee had always taught him to wary of strangers which had proven sound advice during the exodus. Brennie just hoped the man wanted him for something wholesome like an assassination of some rival rather than the other reasons strange adults approached children. It was a fair thing to be concerned about—the man had broken into his room—frankly, Brennie was surprised none of the other cadets had woken up by either the specter’s intrusion or, for that matter, Brennie’s shout when he’d attempted to slice the man’s neck open. There were fewer such creeps on board the stardestroyers than there were planetside—the exiled war criminals who had lost their homes (and many who had lost their families) tended to react poorly upon finding such predators among their ranks, especially those that would hurt their children. It was one of the few instances that the members of the First Order allowed themselves to demonstrate any concern for their offspring. For the most part the children of the Exiles were treated as tiny adults and expected to be perfectly capable of defending themselves. It was one thing if a child fell during training or battle, that was perfectly normal in the First Order and among the cadets casual murder was a perfectly acceptable means of solving disputes—though it was a practice that High Command occasionally considered eliminating due to their low numbers but in the end decided to simply "recruit" new Stormtroopers during raids. 

It was an ongoing problem that many of the adults still held such protective instincts despite the First Order's attempts to stamp out individual thought.

The last time a predator was found on board it had taken days to wash out all the brain matter that had gotten lodged in hard to reach places in the maintenance shafts, necessitating that the junior cadets aided in the cleanup.

The new generation would be better at ignoring such base instincts. 

But back to the immediate issue, how had this stranger gotten aboard—if he even was aboard. Brennie still hadn't completely ruled out a hologram even if he couldn't find the projector. 

How had he even gotten on board the ship? He didn’t _look_ like a member of the crew... Brennie supposed the ship was quite large (he’d read that one stardestroyer boasted a population that was roughly the size of a city back on Arkanis) he knew there were certain parts of it were off-limits to the cadets. He knew the crew was bigger than just those he’d met. It was possible the man was a member of the crew he had simply not encountered before. And yet, somehow, Brennie had imagined that someone would have noticed and mentioned a glowing red man—space was mostly boring after all, between battling for their lives, so gossip tended to travel fast.

For that matter, the fact the man was _glowing ominously_ and was impervious to knives was strange in itself, but at this juncture it couldn’t hurt to be polite... 

“I’m sorry, sir, but I’m sure you’ve got the wrong room,” Brennie tried, taking care to enunciate clearly and use only the Imperial Core accent he’d been schooled in with no trace of his native Arkanian brogue or any of the other “uncultured” Outer Rim slang he and his fellow cadets had picked up. 

“Brendol Liam Hux… _the Second._ ” 

Brennie blinked in confusion and glanced around for his father. He was just Brennie. Or more frequently of late, just _Hux._ ” 

The strange shade of a man softened his tone. “Brennie.” 

“Y-yes?” The boy’s eyes widened as he realized the strange glowing man really was addressing him. 

_Him._

...And not making a lot of sense. What did he mean he _was_ the Empire? The Empire was… _The Empire._ The Empire was never just one person—one person with _individual_ interests—it was lots and lots of people! And he was just one _junior_ cadet, _less than nothing_ until he proved himself, to one day follow in his father’s footsteps and become a servant of the Empire, a cog in the machine, efficient but ultimately replaceable. Brennie regarded the being warily—though he was talking nonsense he was an adult and one who clearly held some power beyond his understanding and while his father had always taught Brennie to acquiesce to authority, Brennie could see that the strange man in his room was clearly not part of the Exiled Imperial Command structure. 

“We’re hardly strangers, child.” The shade declared as if plucking the thought right from his mind. Perhaps he had… “We’re family.” 

_“Family?”_

His father was his only family, at least the only family he was supposed to recognize now. At least in theory, but the Commandant was a busy man, even more now with the fall of the Empire he had no time for his individual interests. His father was just _Commandant_ now, never _father._

_(He had no one.)_

Brennie knew it was selfish to desire otherwise yet sometimes he was weak in that regard. Brennie knew he should be proud of his father—he was working to save them all, ‘to keep them and their way of life alive,’ to punish the bad people that killed mother and scrapped DeeDee and sent them all away… 

Brennie attempted to study the face of the glowing red figure—it was mostly hidden by his cowl yet despite never meeting him before there was something vaguely familiar about him. Perhaps he’d seen him in a holo somewhere… 

The shade seemed to humor him, drawing back the cowl and allowed him to get a better look at his face. That’s when Brennie realized _exactly_ where he’d seen the man before. His face very distinctively scarred and deformed from the attack on his person by the traitorous Jedi. 

_“Emperor?”_ Brennie gasped, forgetting all he’d ever learned of decorum in his shock. It did not seem to matter that the Emperor was dead, that this should be impossible. 

_The Emperor himself was paying him a visit._

The Emperor chucked as the child scrambled to bow properly. Brennie flushed, feeling woefully inadequate and underdressed in his nightclothes. 

_Why him?_ He was just a junior cadet. He was not worthy… Not _yet_ … 

“Yes, child. I _am_ the Emperor. And you, Brennie, are my chosen heir.” 

Brennie could not contain his shock and bewilderment. 

(But then, deep down, wasn’t this just what he always wanted? Always _knew?_ Tiny fists clenched late at night with angry tears and silent rage vowing that one day the Republic would pay—they’d taken his mothers, his friends, his home, his planet, his model stardestroyer, and everything but the clothes on his back. He’d vowed every night since the Exile that one day he would take back the Galaxy from the one’s who’d taken everything from them and pay them back a _thousandfold._ ) 

“I am honored, sir. But… why chose me?” 

“Because Brennie, as I said, we are family,” the Emperor spoke, almost gently and made an abortive motion as if to put a non-corporeal hand on the child’s shoulder. “I am your grandfather and it is _your destiny,_ Brennie, to sit the throne that rules the galaxy.” 

Brennie felt a chill, despite the regulated temperature of the stardestroyer. 

_He would rule the galaxy._

_Yes, that was right._ His grandfather, the late Emperor said so, so that was a matter of _fact._ And once he did the usurpers would finally be punished and ease the suffering of his people... 

The young boy looked the shade in the eye, and snapped out in his most commanding voice, just as his father had taught him. _“Show me.”_

The shade cackled (an unnerving sound like the rattling of bones) “In time, Brennie, in time.”


	2. Chapter 2

“Alright, Brennie. Repeat after me: _‘I pledge myself to the Order of the Sith Lords.’”_

_“I pledge myself to the Order of the Sith Lords.”_ Brennie robotically intoned while kneeling to the Emperor. That was surprisingly easy. It felt no different than what they did at the Academy, pledging allegiance to the First Order every hour. 

“Arise Darth…” Sidious seemed to consider it for a moment. _“Sköll.”_

_So apparently I’m a Sith now. Strange… I don’t feel any different._

“Hey grandpa, uh… Emperor— _sir?_ ” 

“Yes?”

“Will I have to wear one of those black dresses too?” 

A tick developed in one of the shade’s sinister yellow eyes “it’s a _robe,_ child.” 

***

By the time his grandfather started his training, Brennie had already been living in Exile, fighting for scraps of food, competing against the other exile children, being shunted from planet to planet, contracting every disease and encountering the scum of the galaxy. 

He was already well-acquainted with pain and hardship. 

Perhaps it was naïve but Brennie thought there was nothing that his grandfather could do that would be worse than what had _already_ (been done to him), no, what he’d already _been through._

Brennie, no, _Darth Sköll_ clings to this belief as his grandfather hits him again with force lightning. Of course his grandfather is not needlessly torturing him—to fully master force lighting you have to be exposed to it and Darth Sköll desperately wants to have such a weapon. 

He needs to get stronger. 

He is young, small, slight of build, and apparently far too pretty for his own good. 

No matter how many hours he dedicates to the gym his body refuses to add muscle mass.

His red hair, a genetic rarity in humans, is seen as “exotic” and coveted by the Hutts. 

He couldn’t always count on the older kids for protection (the last time they tried to sell him out themselves.)

He’d gotten quite good with his knives (hidden up his sleeves, strapped to his thigh, hidden in his boot…) He’d learned every dirty trick when it came to fighting but he was well aware that there was always someone stronger.

He needs the lightning, so he will endure. 

He would not be _weak._

(Not again. _Never again._ )

And really this isn’t as bad—that time he’d been sick with some unknown strain of alien hell-flu was worse. At least now there are brief periods of respite before he’s getting hit again—when he was sick he felt like this all the time until his fever broke.

It hurt, of course, but it was worth it in the end. 

The lightning danced between his fingertips.

His grandfather was so proud of him and was quite emphatic about the fact he had done _“Good.”_

(Praise from his father never came so easily.)

Sköll let out a rare smile that was all teeth. 

Darth Sidious was admittedly a bit unnerved by his apprentice, this child who withstood torture without complaint. 

He didn’t even scream. 

***

Long before beginning his Sith training as Darth Sköll the boy who was born Brendol Liam Hux II was already being trained and honed as a weapon by DDM38 under the auspices of his father. In many ways his father used him as a prototype for the lessons he would later teach at their new academies… and the stormtroopers. When he was trained alongside the white-armored children he ceased to be Brennie to them and was only known as HX-1138 and he was taught the suppression of emotions and his individuality. 

So, the complete opposite of what his grandfather was now teaching him.

HX-1138’s… (no Brennie… no, _Sköll’s_ ) frame shook with distress, his fingernails driving into the flesh of his palms until they drew blood. 

Just by partaking in these lessons, he was willfully undoing his conditioning. This was getting dangerously close to treason…

 _“YOU could never commit treason,”_ Sidious had assured him. _”You, the crown prince of the Empire—you will rule one day, my young apprentice. It is your birthright.”_

Only the Empire was dead and he lived for the First Order. 

***

Sköll often wondered what his father would think of these private lessons he had with the Emperor. Would he be honored to serve the Emperor or would he frown upon his having individual interests? Sköll knew that the Commandant could recognize that force-sensitives were of tactical value even though his father made no secret of his disdain for all things “mystical.”

Yet Sköll liked to think his father would have been proud. He was learning to wield the Emperor’s own power to use for the good of the First Order—and he was doing it in utmost discretion _and_ without letting any of his other studies slip. It wasn’t until years later that Sköll worked out the answer—his father was often at odds with Tarkin’s policies and by extension the Emperor’s. 

His father, most likely, would have been horrified.

***

When Grandpa Sidious began his training he gave Brennie a new name, a name all his own, a secret name only he and his grandfather ever used. It hardly seemed useful but then, it was tradition and he’d noticed his grandfather was fond of dramatics. He was Darth Sköll. While it sounded like the Basic word “skull” (which was oddly appropriate given his mind was and always would be his greatest strength) the word used actually meant either “Treacherous” or “The Starkiller” in some ancient Sith language—an allusion to some ancient Sith legend of the Raquor’daan-that-Devours-Suns, and would plunge the Galaxy into darkness.

Master Sidious said it suited him. 

Brennie, _Sköll,_ wasn’t so sure. He was more of a cat person, really, but he reminded himself it could have been worse. At least he didn’t name him something stupid like Darth Fox or Darth Ginger—which was not much of a stretch given Sith tradition had such ridiculous names as Darth Krayt, Darth Maladi… Darth _Gravid._ Even a name such as _Darth Vader_ was kind of silly when you sat down and analyzed the meaning. Being derived from _invader_ or, more ridiculously, _father_ —hardly a frightening name on its own. (Well, unless said father was _Commandant Brendol Hux I_ —surely having Darth Vader himself as a father couldn’t have been worse…) 

Yes, all things considered he got off rather easy as Sköll. 

The name would also turn out to be oddly prophetic—both in terms of his professional project as General and of a certain, private hobby of trophy collecting he would later indulge in. His own way of honoring his Arkanian heritage—the ancient warchiefs of his home planet would often collect the skulls of their enemies as a final _“kriff you”_ to the dead and hold power over their soul or some such nonsense—they would decorate them, or use them as ash trays, or use them in mystic rituals the contents and context of which had long since been lost to time though Sköll would later attempt to revive the traditions. 

As ridiculous and overdramatic as the name was, Sköll couldn’t help but be pleased to finally have a name that was all his own (HX-1138 his Stormtrooper number from basic training didn’t really count since it wasn’t a name at all)—he was no longer _just_ Brendol Hux II, an extension of his father. By renaming him, his grandfather had recognized that he was his own person— _unique, special…_

(An individual. His grandfather saw him as an individual. He knew he wasn’t supposed to acknowledge his own individuality _but…_ ) 

Too bad it had to remain a secret.


	3. Chapter 3

(Flick on.)

A spark of fuel igniting; a primitive design but surprisingly effective. 

Sköll lay in his bunk, daring to brush his hand against the tiny flame of the cigarra lighter and seeing how long he could hold it there before flicking it off again whenever he sensed someone coming. 

(Flick off.)

(Flick on.) 

He wasn’t supposed to have it—it was contraband, a highly decorated, uselessly _decadent_ thing depicting lightning in the ornate and highly stylized Arkanian style that was superfluous to its function—but then neither was his father. He stole it from his desk, using the Force to, well, force the drawer open. 

He wasn’t sure what he was expecting—he wasn’t expecting _anything_ really when he started rifling through his father’s things. It was Sidious who had suggested he get proper blackmail material on all his C.O.s, _just in case_ and his father was one of them—though never _directly._

(Flick off.)

(Flick on. _Watch as the palms begin to blister._ ) 

Sköll supposed it would be preferable to killing him but then he would be hard pressed to find any dirt on his father that wouldn’t reflect back poorly on him as well. 

Naturally owning such contraband, especially the _Commandant_ owning such contraband, wouldn’t even get him a slap on the wrist. (Of course his father was smarter than that—the _good stuff_ would be better hidden, of that Sköll was sure. He had indulged in some indignant pouting for a moment before using the Force again to repair the lock to make it look as if the drawer had never been broken into. No sense in making the old man more paranoid than he already was.)

Of course if his father became a problem in the future he would have to handle the situation _delicately._ The best way around that was to take preventative measures and never give him reason for suspicion in the first place. 

He had to be careful—his father was sharp. During a rare personal inspection he’d noticed the changes, even if he couldn’t guess the cause, he’d noticed his son was looking shaky and ashen, and had sent him immediately to the infirmary, thinking he’d caught yet another alien bug despite not being dirtside in months. 

The med-droid subscribed him shots for vitamin deficiency. 

Of course _vitamins_ were no cure for this. 

The Dark side took its toll.

(Flick off.)

As Darth Sköll he knew he should resent his father for treating him like a stormtrooper (no _less than a stormtrooper_ ) but really, he couldn’t help but envy them sometimes—the stormtroopers that is. 

They shared a camaraderie that the Cadets never could—there was much less backstabbing than among the future officers. During Basic Training he’d made a friend of an older trooper girl—though they would never admit it even on pain of death—they were allies, certainly, but “friends” suggested a level of attachment that was overall frowned upon. 

But the Dark Side _reveled_ in such attachments. As Darth Sköll he allowed himself to imagine the troopers as family and especially Phasma as the sister he never had. 

(She was _nice_ to him, shared her rations during a forced death-march even though she wasn't supposed to and got in trouble for it.) 

It was hard sometimes, to keep such feelings concealed—especially with his grandfather actively trying to undo his training. Just another reason to envy the stormtroopers—they could hide behind their masks and they didn't have the Commandant breathing down their necks. They didn’t have to pass such high standards (just had to pass within a certain acceptable range), they would never know the pressure to be perfect that he did or to live up to the names of his father and forefathers—despite all claims that the First Order was not about the interests of individuals, simply having the name Hux meant there were certain expectations that he simply _had_ to live up to. Sometimes Sköll thought the stormtroopers were lucky—they never knew their fathers so they could never be disappointed.

(Flick on.)

In the Sims he got top marks in ranged combat and had begun training as a sniper. He’d been proud of this accomplishment until the Emperor had shown him that he was only so skilled in marksmanship because he was a Force-sensitive and thus the Force was acting through him. And here he’d thought that he was just naturally good at something combat-related for once. Sköll supposed it was for the best that he was a shoo-in for the command track since he was just not built for combat. He’d had to train for endless hours just to gain any proficiency at self-defense. 

Sköll hated the Force.

Sure, at times it was useful but the problems it caused were hardly worth the benefits. He hated that it seemed to have a will of its own, hated that it directed his life and purpose, uncaring of his own, no, the _Order’s_ interests. Did he not already have enough obligations as a soldier of the First Order and as Brendol Hux’s son? 

Obviously not. 

He was forgetting he was also the Emperor’s heir—for all the fat lot of good _that_ did him.

Sometimes he didn’t think he’d mind so much just being a stormtrooper—just as long as he was allowed to be a Flametrooper. The last field trip dirtside to learn how to use the flamethrowers was definitely his favorite part of Basic training. 

There was nothing more purifying than fire. 

( _Some nights he dreamt of worlds drenched in hellfire. Billions of beings screaming in horror and then suddenly silenced._ ) 

(Flick off.)

(Flick on. _Feel the flames lick against the burning flesh. How much longer...?_ ) 

He needed the soothing dance of the flames after being put through exams—finals, naturally, had involved dueling his classmates to the death. 

Of course he had not doubted the outcome, ( _could not_ ; to doubt would be to invite in weakness) but despite his hopefully not-so-obvious advantage it was… hard. And not just because he wanted to keep said advantages hidden, either.

He’d known many of those kids since the beginning. 

There was Keena, the girl who's hand he'd held when his group of Exiles had switched ships to board a rickety shuttle off of Sullust.

He'd broken her neck. 

There was Yvo, the boy he'd played "Imperials and Rebels" with around a campfire on Hoth.

He'd stabbed him in the heart. 

There was Apollen, the boy who cradled his head; back when he was just Brennie and the voices worse than usual when coupled with the hallucinations that came with some alien fever. He'd comforted him when he was unable to keep the wails of despair heard through the Force out of his head.

He'd ripped his throat open with his teeth.

Classmates and teachers alike now whispered around him (their minds _so loud_ ). They now called him ruthless, a monster, a murderer since he had survived—he knew better than to hesitate so he had emerged unscathed. 

_"The weak die, the strong survive."_ His father's words. He took solace in them now. 

And Sköll wrapped their whispered words around him like armor, just as his grandfather had taught him. 

Yes, he would be ruthless. He was a survivor. And he would keep moving forward—to try any less than his absolute best would be an _insult_ to those he’d had to kill. The only path forward was to lead the First Order to victory. It would all be worth it in the end if he could just _bring them home._

It had to be.


	4. Chapter 4

He is no longer Brennie or even HX-1138. At the Academy he just goes by Hux now—he’d worked hard to earn that right, but now student and teacher alike see him as a mere copy of his father. No one judged him for his own merits and the instructors all seemed to believe he intended to just coast along on his father’s success. 

None but grandfather knew his true name, his true potential...

It was hardly fair (but then when was it ever?) It didn’t matter. He’d show them all. He would not only meet but _surpass_ their expectations. 

It still hurt though. He could admit that to himself at least. 

Even on the rare occasions when his peers weren’t _trying_ to rip each other to pieces (displaying the natural sadism of childhood coupled with cult-like training to squash any lingering and unnecessary empathy); even when they were actually trying be civil Sköll could still hear _exactly_ what they all really thought of him. It was times like these his abilities became a curse. 

His grandfather had yet to focus on that aspect of his training, claiming he needed the read. Sköll conceded that he was probably right considering that part of Academy culture was the casual murder of one’s rivals. Hearing just how the older students planned to corner him in the fresher or during his shift down in maintenance had saved his life on multiple occasions. Still, plumbing the cesspits of their minds was doing nothing to improve his opinions of life and the universe in general—something he was sure Sidious was well aware. 

The stardestroyer he resided on alone was home to thousands of minds and Sköll’s own mind was left wide open to the Force, unable to stem the tide the most he could do was tune it out by distracting himself—often by burning something. He was careful; he ensured that any deviant behavior was never observable by his superiors or anyone who would talk. He at least _appeared_ to function normally (and that was the most important thing.) But the voices were always there, chattering in the background. He heard it all—their every petty thought, every unvoiced insult. 

He knew all the ugliness—the pain, resentment, and despair. 

He knew their secret hopes and dreams. 

Yet, despite all the ugliness… they were the Order. They were _Family_ and most wanted just as he wanted—to reclaim the worlds they lost. 

***

Sköll could admit that there were some things he really just didn’t understand—the biggest of which was that his grandfather, the Emperor _wanted_ him to be bad—to feel emotions, to be selfish, to _want things for himself._ Sköll had to constantly remind himself that his grandfather was from a different time, and even though he’d founded the Empire he’d originally come from the Republic. He clearly did not grasp the decadence and wastefulness of the New Republic. Sköll doubted he could ever persuade the old ghost around to his point of view—not for lack of trying (he’d had many great debates with his master, some of which had ended with him on the receiving end of force lightning.) 

Sköll would later realized that this was where the true learning began—that _this_ would be more important to his success than any of the flashier force abilities he was learning—because Sidious had been a _politician_ before he was a Sith lord and this was the most useful thing he had to teach him—debate and persuasion, how to avoid verbal traps, how to win people over and how to craft a speech towards a specific audience versus one that would appeal to the masses. Sidious taught him that words were weapons and should be wielded with care. 

Sköll knew his grandfather would never see beyond his own individuality to the bigger picture but that was fine. He’d learn what he needed from his grandfather and then give it to the First Order.

 _He_ could never commit treason, after all. 

***

On an intellectual level Sköll knew that playing with fire was a bad idea under the best of circumstances but he’d been too young and too stupid to understand certain facts about their current situation. There was a reason his father had quit smoking once they started living on stardestroyers full-time.

1\. They were on a spaceship. 

2\. The air was recycled. 

3\. The Oxygen was very pure. 

It didn’t occur to him at the time that his powers had protected them from the repercussions. 

The cadets in the next barracks over weren’t so lucky. When the Oxygen ignited it blasted a hole in the ship killing everyone nearby instantly. The whole area had to be sectioned off and it took months to repair. 

Sköll likely would have been in the area himself studying had his grandfather not insisted they get his daily training in early that day—his grandfather had him practicing concealing his presence from both sentient beings and recording devices while running the length of the stardestroyer with a lot of parkour and force-jumping as the routes his grandfather selected became more and more sadistically challenging—which was fine. He could take whatever Sidious threw at him. He did not need to be coddled. In fact he was eager to apply some of what he’d been taught outside of Sims to test their real world effectiveness. 

The Sith Lord was a harsh taskmaster and Sköll couldn’t help but imagine he’d probably make him carry him on his back or something if he were corporeal. As it was the red specter just floated along lazily behind him as Sköll sweated and suffered, occasionally commenting on the perks of not having a body was that he never got tired or berating him that he could do better than him as an old man. 

So, coincidentally, when the explosion occurred he was on the other end of the ship getting scolded by some uptight officer for being in the wrong area when he lost concentration and his force concealment failed (he’d been distracted by the sensation of so much sudden death, so near—it had forced him to his knees). 

It was just the suddenness of it, and that his mind was still open and raw to the Force—that’s all it was. _Of course_ it wasn’t something like a connection to the Light as his grandfather had “jokingly” suggested. 

Light? In _him?_

He was a killer, born and raised for war. Of course, he knew the disgusting Jedi weren’t pacifists either but still… the very notion was ridiculous. 

***

He wasn’t particularly close to any of his peers (with the notable exception of Phasma, safe in the trooper barracks at the time of the blast) and after Finals he was further discouraged from forming attachments, rarely interacting with his peers anymore than was required by the Academy but the experience had still somewhat shaken him. 

He couldn’t shake the feeling that this was somehow his fault. Cadet Anill, one of the kids (no _junior cadets,_ they were junior cadets, soldiers, not kids, they’d never been kids)… _Cadet Anill_ , one of the casualties, was the very same cadet who had once caught him playing with the lighter. 

Sköll had ensured he wouldn’t talk—literally, with Force Persuasion. His grandfather told him not to worry about it—that even the Jedi for all their alleged righteousness regularly messed with people’s heads to cover their tracks—but worry he did. Sköll worried he’d broken something in his fellow cadet when he’d planted the suggestion. Cadet Anill had never been prone to playing with fire before. Maybe the “accident” had been Anill’s attempt to communicate what he had discovered in the only way he knew how? 

Sköll would never know for sure if he had been the one to set Anill off but still it made him wary of using the force to manipulate the minds of his comrades—he’d come to the unsettling realization that planting such suggestions could, potentially, be interfering with their conditioning and… that was just bad for everyone. The brain was a delicate thing—his father had shown him that—that Stormtroopers could only be put through so many reconditionings before they had to be terminated—that’s why it was better if everyone just followed the rules. 

Or perhaps… the Dark side—chaos, _disorder_ and everything, he’d sworn to destroy everyday when he took his oath to the First Order…Grandfather insisted it didn’t matter _but…_

Perhaps… the Dark side itself, acting through him…. 

Kriff, he _hated_ the Force.

No, he could blame the Force all he wanted but really, this was still on him—him and his _sickness;_ his stupid flouting of the rules. Overnight he’d become the Emperor’s Heir and a Sith apprentice—he’d thought he was _hot shit._ Now his classmates were dead because _he_ had set a bad example. 

He knew he _shouldn’t_ mourn the deaths of his fellows—that was dangerously close to _compassion_ something that both the Academy and his Sith training discouraged—and really this just meant there was less competition but still… there were so few of them left and life was hard enough for the Exiles. This was a gross waste of resources and a major setback for the Order. 

His behavior reflected poorly on his organization and his family—this was not behavior befitting a future commander of the First Order. 

If he knew, his father would be so disappointed… he might just execute him himself. 

No, he had to get a handle on his… _non-conformities_ or at least take steps to ensure he wasn’t caught again. He would try and keep away from the temptation of fire and if it got too much, well… the _lightning_ suited his needs. He wanted to say he’d stop but he knew he would be lying—if only it was so simple as to tell himself “stop that” to get his compulsions under control. No, he’d ensured he would never be _seen_ doing it again and he took steps to ensure he met every safety precaution but he _knew,_ no matter how much the explosion had unsettled him that he wouldn’t be able to stop… not _completely._

Because his father was right—he was _weak._

He needed to get stronger. 

No. 

He _would_ get stronger. 

He’d found this Force magic could do many amazing things—surely he could use it to help with his own impulse control? Sure, the Sith were passionate but not to the detriment of their own goals. This was weakening him. Surely his grandfather didn’t want him to be weak? He could not, would not let this rule him. 

Of course it wouldn’t be that easy—not when lightning spilled from his fingertips with just a thought. 

(The lightning he had begged his grandfather to teach him. That was supposed to protect him.) 

Once again his gift had become a curse. 

Until he could convince his grandfather to teach him how to be rid of his compulsions, or he could discover it for himself, he took to wearing his gloves all the time to remind himself—or at least delay himself from sparking whenever he was agitated. They also became a necessity in order to hide the mess of myriad scars on his hands. 

Sköll still wasn’t sure where Anill had acquired the lighter but at least it wasn’t _his_ —or rather the lighter he’d stolen from his father. In the wake of the tragedy next door he’d thrown it down a garbage shoot—it seemed a shame to trash that last piece of Arkanis but he wouldn’t let something as foolish as _sentiment_ get him caught. It was not wise to keep such an item at the moment, especially when they started doing random inspections—he would be reconditioned at best, executed at worse. Not that it would be any worse than what he deserved… 

Sköll understood now. He’d been selfish and stupid, obsessed with his own _individual_ interests and had forgotten that he had an obligation to his comrades and the Order as a whole. The rules were there for a reason—to protect them, to keep them safe from their own stupidity. 

He’d do his best to follow them to the letter in the future. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I began writing this story before the name Brendol got jossed and before the name/backstory announcement. Since the name thing (and only being seen as an extension of his father) is part of why it’s so easy for Sidious to sink his claws in, I’ve decided to keep it as is. 
> 
> However I already had him being a bastard (I'm psychic!) and his mother a mysterious figure so I’ve just incorporated some of the new backstory here.

“Master? Did you… Did you know my mother?” Sköll one day dared to ask. It had been something plaguing his mind for quite some time but he’d never worked up the nerve to ask. Now, however, he’d lost his usual filters and inhibitions somewhere between cursing Sidious and freezing his ass off. 

Sidious had trapped him inside the ship’s freezer compartment to teach him to better regulate his use of the Force. He’d asked for it—he needed better control of himself and his powers—and yet, somehow, he had once again underestimated Sidious’s teaching methods.

Sidious insisted that suffering made him stronger.

Sköll supposed he could see the sense in that—as his drill sergeant always said, “Pain is just weakness leaving the body.”It didn’t stop him hating him for it—which was apparently perfectly acceptable according to Sidious—indeed it was the desired result of a Sith master-apprentice relationship.

“Oh yes. My daughter. Kaalin Jerjerrod—” 

A name. 

She had a _name._

All he remembered of his birth mother was that she had been a red-haired women dressed in black and she’d been in his bedroom, back at the old, now abandoned Hux family manor back on Arkanis. She’d had a pretty light— _been advancing on him with a lit lightsaber._ That father had driven her off at gunpoint…

“Wait… shouldn’t it be Kaalin _Palpatine_ … Master?” Sköll asked innocently, trying to ignore his chattering teeth and the ice forming on the tip of his nose. Sometimes it got this cold back on Arkanis but DeeDee always made sure he never went out without layers of warm clothes—the nanny droid would never have permitted this, at least not without a major override of her basic protocols. 

“No. Your grandmother was a Jerjerrod and we were not married. You do realize I could not acknowledge the connection? For their own safety, of course. So to answer your question she was a bastard and so are you.”

Sköll forced himself not to react to the words. That was hardly new information—he knew _his parents_ weren’t married when he was conceived—as if his father’s snooty friends would ever let him forget it. 

It seemed everyone had a theory on who his mother was—sometimes she was one of the Commandant’s cadets, sometimes she was a prostitute, the most ridiculous one by far insinuated that the rebel princess and Public Enemy Number One, Leia Organa, was in Imperial custody at the time of his conception, blatantly ignoring the fact that at the time his father was teaching on the other side of the galaxy, and while his father was capable of a great many things that just seemed to be pushing the boundaries of plausibility. And as if anyone in his family would ever touch rebel scum, let alone a _Skywalker._ If he ever found himself connected to _that_ clusterkark he might just throw himself out an airlock. 

His gloves creaked as he squeezed his fists tighter, forcing himself to focus on the pain, the flow of the Dark… Kriff, not even their stopover on Hoth had been this cold. Then they’d had a campfire and blankets—and clothes more substantial than the thin, stylish cadet uniform. 

“Now, if I may continue?”

“Of course, master. I apologize, master.” 

“Good. Now Kaalin Jerjerrod was known among the Sith Order as Darth Tropas. She was my secret apprentice in the later days of the Empire and served as the Emperor’s hand, serving in a capacity to handle… _delicate matters_ that I could not entrust to that traitor Vader,” the Sith sighed. “She had such promise… but she was weak. She lost her way.” 

“What happened?” Sköll asked, discomfort of the cold (which he swore he could feel all the way down to his bones) momentarily forgotten. 

“She _fell in love,_ ” Sidious sneered. “And when the Empire fell… I was unable to complete her training. I had not yet learned how to reach the living—she died before I could reach her. She did not die a proper Sith. That should tell you all you need to know,” Sidious said bitterly. He would say nothing more on the subject.

Still, it was much more information than he had before. The few times his father had mentioned his mother (never to him, always when Sköll was reduced to eavesdropping on his father’s company) he’d overheard him telling everyone she was just _some kitchen woman_ and no one important at all. Sköll did not know if that was what the Commandant really believed or if it was a misdirection— Sköll supposed that fucking a Sith would no doubt be a bit more scandalous than fucking the waitstaff. 

“Sköll… Swear to me you won’t let some _silly girl_ distract you from your goals,” Sidious ordered the child, deadly serious. 

“Don’t worry, master—I won’t.” 

_“Good.”_

***

As Sköll entered his teenage years, he would later discover loopholes. 

( _Thank Force_ for loopholes...)

***

Sköll knew his grandfather meant to be disparaging when he’d spoken of Tropas, of Kaalin Jerjerrod, but it actually came as a relief—now he knew that his parents _had_ cared about each other, or at least they had once. He’d always wondered, especially back when he was just Brennie, if his father was always this cold and if his parents’ relationship was some loveless thing arranged for convenience. Sköll reasoned that courting a Dark Lady of the Sith was unlikely to have been very _convenient._ It was hardly an ideal arrangement (and probably hadn’t been very healthy) but it was unlikely they’d gotten together just for political gain… though it still seemed that any relationship between them had been star-crossed at best—Sköll had often heard his father speak disparagingly of anything pertaining to the Force. He wondered if the Commandant had held such aversions before or _after_ meeting Darth Tropas.

He’d been led to assume his father had taken advantage of some kitchen woman but what if it had gone the other way? What if Kaalin had manipulated his mind? These were details he didn’t really want to think about, he wanted to think of them as a happy couple crushing the enemies of the Empire together but he found himself dwelling on them anyway. 

But then… why? For blackmail? His father wasn’t exactly… conventionally attractive (Sköll supposed that to a man that large around in the gut, he _would_ resemble a piece of paper) though he was no less admirable for it—the man was very charismatic and with a wicked sense of humor. Sköll could only hope to be as strong a leader as his father one day. 

Maybe...just _maybe._ It was as his grandfather had said. Maybe they really had loved each other. 

Once. 

One of Sköll’s few memories of his mother was of her coming into his childhood bedroom with an _ignited lightsaber_ and of his father shouting at her, blaster drawn… 

At times he’d only seen the pretty lady and the pretty light and had dreamt that she’d come to take him away from father, take him to a better place... Then he’d remembered the woman’s cruel laughter and realized just how naïve he had been. 

He realized what he’d seen now. 

His own mother had come to kill him herself and his _father_ had protected him. 

His mother had clearly been less than stable.

And yet… whatever was left of that foolish sentiment he and his training had yet to rip out of his heart still wanted to give his mother the benefit of a doubt. 

Perhaps the world wasn’t as black and white as he’d once thought.

He still didn’t understand—he probably never would—but now he felt he was closer to the truth. 

Sidious said that she served as the Emperor’s Hand. 

Perhaps Sidious himself had ordered his mother to kill him and his father as punishment for having a personal life. 

And maybe that’s why Tropas—a “Dark Lord of the Sith with much potential” had _allowed_ herself to be driven off by an aging Imperial officer armed with just a blaster and biting words. 

He still couldn’t get over that part. His _father,_ the same father who constantly derided him, who he was never good enough for… _had protected him._ He, a force-null had stood between him and a Sith... _for him._ Surely he wouldn’t do that if he really thought he was weak and worthless. If he really thought that then no doubt the Commandant would have thrown him to the tentabeast the moment he was born. 

That’s when he knew—even though his father was… _strict_ with him, Sköll knew he could always count on his father, at least as an ally. He couldn’t say the same about his grandfather. Sköll already knew to be wary of Sidious—apparently the whole idea of being Sith was learning how to time betrayal carefully. Who else would have ordered their deaths? The only reason Sidious hadn’t yet finished the job was because he was out of pawns and needed him now. As for his mother… whatever else she had been in life, he knew that in the end she died a hero—defending the Empire to her last breath in the Battle of Arkanis and allowing the Exiles (and her family) to escape—Sköll decided that was what really mattered. 

No wonder Sidious and his father had been so reluctant to speak of her—Sidious clearly couldn’t have imagined a worse fate for a fledgling Sith, let alone his own heir and his father, understandably, did not like to relive what amounted to the worst day of his life.

Still, Sköll allowed himself a tight, private smile—his mother was a _Hero of the Empire,_ her story deserved to be known, and once he was Emperor and took back Arkanis he’d build a memorial—he’d make sure _everyone_ knew her story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The bit about loopholes was inspired by reading the novel "Darth Plagueis" where Plagueis _only_ warns Sidious against getting involved with women. Sith Lords… so unimaginative (the homoerotic subtext was strong with that one.)
> 
> Also here's Darth Tropas: http://reaperlight.tumblr.com/post/147385071210/kaalin-jerjerrod-darth-tropas-the-hero-of


End file.
